


Break Through the Water

by Violet_Quaileggs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Quaileggs/pseuds/Violet_Quaileggs
Summary: Close your eyes. Put your head back. Wade into the quiet of the stream.It was quiet when they were underneath the surface. It was nothing but darkness and silence.They can still do just that. Close their eyes. Wade into the quiet of death. Tangled in one another. Conjoined.





	Break Through the Water

Darkness.

 

Pitch black darkness is all he sees. Or maybe because his eyes are close. That can also be a possibility.

 

No. That can't be it.

 

His eyes aren't close because he can feel the burning sensation scorching his sockets, blurring his non-existent vision. His throat is also scratched as he gulps down the salt water unintentionally. His open wounds welcome the pain the salt provides, since it reminds him he is still alive. But not for long if he doesn’t start moving now. The Atlantic Sea is cruel in this time of year, every wave is brutal and abrupt, and if you were to dive underneath the pulsating surface, you’d freeze to death from the icy water. The cold however does help in stopping the bleeding. Nonetheless, stay for too long, your blood will not only stop bleeding but also stop circulating.

 

He is aware of this, and so he composes his consciousness, pulling himself out of the near-death euphoria he was feeling.

 

He then awares that his arm is wound around another body's waist, unconsciously using its very last strength in holding and clinging to that body. And so, with the other arm, he stretches and swims as best as he can towards the light above. He busts through the surface of water, and suddenly, all the senses enhance tremendously. He can smell the blood, their blood, mixed with salt, salt from the sea, from sweat, from tears. He can hear the loud crashing of the waves against the cliffside. He can feel immense pain coursing through his nerves, and he can feel the life slowly leaving the person he is clutching to.

 

Will.

 

Remembrance of what just happened comes back to him as if it had happened a lifetime ago. In some aesthetic senses, it had. They have killed The Red Dragon, together. The first step into the new life. Will has embraced him. Will has pushed them both off the cliff, and into the sea.

 

_Close your eyes. Put your head back. Wade into the quiet of the stream._

 

It was quiet when they were underneath the surface. It was nothing but darkness and silence.

 

They can still do just that. Close their eyes. Wade into the quiet of death. Tangled in one another. _Conjoined._

 

He is contemplating on just that before he hears a soft, barely audible mutter from the younger man in his arm.

 

“Hannibal...” The word is uttered and only then Hannibal realizes he has not recalled his name before this moment. Only then, he realizes his importance, to himself. To Will. He can’t give up.

Not when Will is dependent on him.

 

Not when he is dependent on Will to remind him of himself.

 

He mustn’t give up.

 

And so, he swims. Battling against the ruthless wave, fighting back the cold seeping into his bones, he swims towards shore. It feels like hours, like years, like he has swum through hell and through the Styx itself. When he reaches the sandy surface of land, he is a new man. He has been reborn.

 

He drags the body with him farther up and away from the sea. He can only crawl, hands and knees sink themselves into the sand. He let out a chuckle, a smug one, like he has cheated death. Realization dawns on him and he abruptly turns to the other person, disturbing the wound in his stomach in the act. But he couldn’t care less, since Will is presently not conscious.

 

"Will." He mutters through raspy voice. He then shakes the other's man lightly, slaps his face in effort of waking him up. None works, his lids still heavily shut, his breathing frail. Placing two of his finger onto the carotid over his skin, he prays, something he doesn't do much, for a pulse. Whatever god that is, humors him and Will's pulse makes a weak pump, barely enough for him to feel.

 

He stands up on shaky legs, plans out his actions in a fraction of a second then crouches down and hauls Will into his arms. The man is smaller than him, but right now, he is too broad and heavy for his exhausted, bleeding body. Still, he musters every ounce of strength he has and begins walking.

 

Up the steps of the cliffs, nearly dropping Will more times than he'd like to. They finally make it to the top, or maybe Hannibal does. Will is still senseless and Hannibal is too occupied to check on his wellbeing on the way up. He pushes the door open and carries Will in through the threshold. Not exactly the circumstance he had imagine this act being executed, but he pushes that thought away, returning his focus on to more pressing matters.

 

Hannibal brings him over to his dining table and lays him flat on the surface. Two fingers immediately reach out to the crucial spot on Will’s neck.

 

The feeling there is unnerving and disconcerting.

 

For he feels nothing.

 

He leans his head down and places his ear right over Will’s nose. No breath is heard, inhaled or exhaled. Hannibal’s heart aches. Not the kind Will had made him feel in the past, not the kind when he had longed for the man when he visited his mind palace. The kind that is overlays a dread of loss. A loss which he does not consent to, and is not by his command nor permission.

 

He and Will both know, they will die under one another’s hand. So Will not breathing now, something Hannibal has not contrived but is rather the product of Dolarhyde’s action, that angers him.

 

And at the same time, it overwhelms him with grief.

 

He places both his palms over Will’s heart and starts pushing down, compressing his chest in attempt to regenerate his heart. With each press, the wound on Hannibal’s abdomen opens wider and oozes more blood out of him, the stain on his shirt does nothing but suffuse. He becomes light-headed yet, he doesn’t give up.

 

He leans down once more and still, nothing is heard nor felt. Hannibal turns and staggers his way to his study, and stalks towards the medical cabinet. He barely gets a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass, he can vaguely register himself being disheveled (an understatement) before opening the doors. Pulling out a duffle bag filled with pills, IV bags, stitches, threads, all the vital equipments, he walks back to the dining room.

 

Will lays there, lifeless, and in that split second of gazing over that image with blurry vision, Hannibal feels a droplet of water rolls down his face. He tells himself it’s just the sea water, for Will’s benefit. Dropping the bag down with a thud, he rolls up his sleeves and dives into work. He quickly drains a bottle of its content into a syringe, holds it up, flicks his finger against it a couple of time before finding a spot on Will’s arm and pushes the needle in under his skin. The injection is steady, as Hannibal can feel the drug working its way into Will’s bloodstream. Hannibal places his fingers over Will’s neck once again and counts to the millisecond. Four and a half seconds pass before he feels a faint vibration pushing back against his fingertips. Hannibal lets out an audible sigh as another droplet falls. He smiles weakly in relief.

 

Bliss doesn’t stay for long before he finds himself getting more and more faint. He decides to continue his work before he loses consciousness. With that resolve, Hannibal starts working on Will’s wound, he stops his bleeding, sanitizes his wounds, stitches them up. He wants to get Will into the bath to clean him up but that’s not a feasibility considering his strength.

 

He decides that Will won’t mind the uncleanness as long as he is still alive. He gathers up his sturdiness once again and picks Will up with difficulty. Trudging towards the bedroom, with a grown man in his arm, with his blood slowly leaving him with each steps, smearing on the floor. His stamina leaves him the second he lays Will down onto the white sheets. He slumps to the ground next to the bed, eyes don’t dared to look away from the figure before him. Hannibal’s eyelids feel heavy, yet he fights the urge to succumb to the dying needs.

 

Dying?

 

Huh… so that’s what he is doing.

 

He’s dying.

 

The feeling is so familiar since he has reached its doorsteps far too often, that he doesn’t realize that it’s something to be dreaded.

 

He settles his back against the wall by the bed, gazing intently. He watches the way Will’s chest moves up and down as he breathes.

 

Will’s breathing. Will’s alive.

 

Hannibal smirks at that, continues to savor every last second he has of gazing over his…. Well… there’s no point denying anymore, not that he has denied it ever. His love.

 

He dies with eyes set on the one he loves. Not the worst way to go.

 

He synchronizes his breathing to his beau’s, each becoming easier than the one before.

 

He surrenders to the exhaustion, letting the darkness wash over him, enveloping him into a cold embrace.

 

 

 

 

_____________________

 

He remembers blood. So much blood. Francis’ blood. Hannibal’s blood. His blood. All mixed up together, and appeared black in the moonlight.

 

He remembers being close to Hannibal in an embrace so tight and intimate that he wondered how void he would feel if they were to be separated.

 

He remembers wind blowing through them both as gravity pulled on their weights.

 

He remembers being freezing cold on impact to the water.

 

He remembers his hands being frozen in their place, clutching onto Hannibal’s shirt.

 

He remembers darkness. And a small cluster of bubbles leaving his mouth as he submitted to the luring compulsion of letting it all go.

 

So he did.

 

He didn’t let go of Hannibal, though.

 

He just closed his eyes… and let faith play itself out.

 

He opens his eyes to darkness, yet again. But this darkness is not as suffocating as the one he experienced before everything went blank. He can still make out the shapes of objects in the room. It’s a very spacious room, with black and red wallpaper, dimming its atmosphere even further. Every bone and muscle in his body ache, raw from salt and abuse. His face is numb, lips dried and throat hoarse, yet he can sense there’s a patch of bandage across his right cheek. He stir a bit to regather his equilibrium, feeling the soft silk that are the sheets under and over himself. He is going to swing his legs over the bed to stand his ground, but with a glance to the side, his composure implodes and his emotions meet halfway between grief and shock.

 

He falls from the bed in attempt to frantically approach the body on the floor. He crawls his way towards the other man, the pain from his shoulder shoots up to his brain and travels all over his being, yet, he proceeds.

 

“Hannibal?” His voice is foreign to his own ears. It pains him immensely just from the single word, he realizes he is very much thirsty and dehydrated. But none of that matters right now, for Hannibal is not moving. Will’s eyes travel over his body, reorganizing the fractured pieces in his head. The stain on Hannibal’s sweater is soaking, and it drips into a puddle under his body.

 

Good. This is good. The blood has not dried yet. That means he has not gone for too long. He can still be saved.

 

Saving Hannibal. Something Will has never thought of doing, but is thrilled that he has the chance to.

 

“Hannibal... “ His throat still hurts. “You’re with me?” He tries shaking him but it is futile. He checks his pulse, and finds none. Will’s heart drops and his stomach clenches, as if his body is caving in on him. He huffs through the panic and sets his mind to one of Hannibal. What would Hannibal do in this situation? His empathetic ability assists him through the process, as he lays Hannibal down to the floor, and begins giving him CPR. A few pushes to the chest, which have proven to be ineffective. He then opens up Hannibal’s mouth, a hand clamping down his nose, as he places his mouth over Hannibal’s and blows down his throat. After a few breaths, he sits up and presses on his heart again. He repeats the procedure a couple of times before he can feel a weak, faint breath being taken by Hannibal, and exhaled. He is breathing.

 

Now comes the hard part. He attempts to lift Hannibal’s body up but the injury in his shoulder prohibits that. Yet, he knows no wound would stop Hannibal from doing the same, so he grits his teeth through the pain and hauls the man onto the bed.

 

Hannibal’s sweater is removed for easy access to the injury. However, as Will gazes at the gaping wound, he becomes aware that he has little to no medical knowledge. Yes, he has read books and watches movies and documentaries. But he doesn’t trust himself with a scalpel on a living person. Then again, he’s Hannibal’s last hope. He pushes away the insecurity and doubts and resolves his mind in saving the man.

 

He leaves the bedroom in search for medical equipment, and the first noticeable sight he catches on his way is the dining table, dripping with, what looks like, his blood. The blood is cold, but it hasn’t dried thoroughly, which means whatever occurred here has not happened long ago. The cold blood pools on the floor, next to a duffle bag. He crouches down and searches inside the pack, finding antibiotics, needles, rubbing alcohol, everything he needs. He returns with the pack in hand, dropping it to the ground by the bed and kneels beside Hannibal.

 

He pulls out a forcep and rubs some alcohol onto it to sterilize, and as he hovers the object over Hannibal’s wound, he hesitates for a second. He is no stranger to gore or mutilation. Tolerance for those kind of things is a requirement to be around Hannibal theses days. What makes him paused is the fact that he’s going to hurt Hannibal by doing this. He has dreamt of hurting the man before, more times than he cares to count, but doing so with the help of a medical tool, it’s just not intimate enough for what they’ve been through.

 

For everything they have done and have been done to them, for everything they have done to each other, a metal object to assist in the act of saving one of the man in question, just seems improper.

 

And so, Will discards the forcep, as he covers his hand with alcohol, and with his eyes fixed on the unconscious man’s face, he digs his fingers into his gaping wound. Wiggling and crooking his fingers inside the man as his face twists into forms of discomfort and agitation brings Will some sort of satisfaction. Hannibal though is out cold still feels the burning feeling of Will’s digits digging and prodding their way in his body.

 

Will finally pulls out the bullet and places it onto the nightstand. His fingers are covered in blood, Hannibal’s blood and Will can’t help but smile triumphantly. He returns to his task as he dabs a cloth with more alcohol and begins cleaning his wound. He threads a needle and sews up the hole poorly. Will never learned how to sew but he still has accurate and steady hands when making his lures.

 

He cleans up the remaining blood and gathers up the mess he makes. He want to give Hannibal some antibiotics in case he gets a fever from infection, but he doesn’t know much about medicine and intaking the wrong drugs is even more dangerous than a fever. So he just hopes to a god he doesn’t believe in, that Hannibal will make it to tomorrow and then he can guide him about what to do. With that settled, Will goes to put away the supplies. On the way, he takes a glance out onto the backyard, where Dolarhyde’s body is still rotting away in the glory of its aesthetic. He feels a tiny pull of pride in his chest as he gazes onto his, _their_ making. Hannibal _has_ changed him after all.

 

Will returns to the master bedroom with exhaustion now only dawns to him. He feels like he should sleep in the guest bedroom, because even though they have just died and been resurrected, he still thinks sense of modesty needs to be in order. Yet, the magnetic pull of Hannibal’s bed is quite strong. He ponders by the doorway for way too long. Subsequently, he finds himself crawling onto the silky white sheets and lays his head down on the pillow. His hand winds itself up on Hannibal’s forehead as he checks for feverous signs. Hannibal is actually quite cold, not surprising, since he has lost a lot of blood.

 

There’s no blood bag in this house as far as Will knows, hence, he settles on just pulling the comforter over them both. On instinct, or magnetic pull, or just twisted, unhealthy dependence, Will turns to his side and curls up against the older man. He tells himself it is only for warmth, and survival. Hannibal would call him out on his bullshit. Good thing Hannibal is unconscious.

 

Will smiles, for no reasons other than that they are alive, hanging on by a thread, but they are alive. He feels content, mixed with drunken drowsiness, as the heat from both of their body makes him flush with whatever amount of blood he has left.

 

Maybe they’d died in bed tonight, maybe they’d just drift off to an endless slumber.

 

Maybe that’s all right.

 

Will weaves his hand into Hannibal’s and squeezes lightly. He lets darkness consume him and he dozes off, seeking rest.

 

And just before he floats off to a drowse, he feels the palm in his grips back weakly.

 

Maybe… just maybe… they’ll make it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________

 

He has a restless night, yet again. His dreams, or maybe hallucinations, he can’t differentiate them anymore, are filled with symbolic imageries that he has a hard time wrapping his head around. He sees the stag in its prime gazing over him in his bed, its expression seems to convey some sort of contentment and satisfaction. But also, it is anxious, and worried, as he looks to the other side of the bed, and sees the Wendigo Man, sleeping, breathing steadily in his slumber. The man’s skin is dark and glossy, outlining every bumps on his body. Will can see the bullet hole on his abdomen, no longer fixed, but rather gaping, and emitting blood. Or what seems like blood. The liquid is dense, dark black, and continuously gushing out of the man.

 

 _It really does look black in the moonlight._ At that, he finds himself and the Wendigo being enveloped in the moonlight, as they are on the cliffside once again. Francis’ body lays flat and lifeless in its own puddle of black goo on the ground. Will returns his line of sight to the Wendigo, now standing erect before him. Close. Too close. And yet he still feels like he needs to be closer.

 

And so, he acts on his instinct, and reaches out his hand, to lay it flat on the Wendigo’s chest, he can feel the man’s eyes boring holes into the top of his head. His hand then travel slowly downwards and stops as it reaches the wound. He finally looks up, right into the creature’s eyes, and buries his fingers into the opening. The man doesn’t flinch yet Will can feel what he is feeling, euphoric pain, and hunger. He looks down onto his hand, and finds the black blood now slowly traveling his arm, coating it and then seeps under his skin, into to his flesh and bones. The color continues spreading upwards and consuming him as he continues twisting his hand inside, continues searching, continues burying himself deeper and deeper into the god before him.

 

The blood extends and expands, defying physics and gravity as it spreads its stains upwards, coursing through his vein, coloring him black. Their skin tone match, and meld to one another, can no longer be differentiated to human’s eyes.

 

And just before the color consumes his face, Will pulls the bullet out of the man, looks him straight in the eyes. And plops it into his mouth. He closes his eyes as he swallows the metal piece, and relishing in letting the blood and the thrill devour him whole, painting him black.

 

 

Will opens his eyes slowly, warily as sunlight burns his raw skin and retinas. He finds himself alone in bed, with Hannibal nowhere in sight. He represses his panic and tries to think logically. He sits up, feeling the cracks in his bones and the stretches in his muscles, everything hurts in a lively way. He intends to get up and go find Hannibal, but then the man in question returns with a tray of food in his hand. He looks clean, still damaged but he looks more like himself with combed back hair, a tucked clean shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow and pants. He seems to have fixed himself up.

 

Will then realizes he also is in clean clothes and body, the blood and sweats have been washed off. The gauzes on his wound are freshly changed. He must have been really tired to be out cold while all of this was being done. That, or Hannibal has slipped him something. Either way, he feels better than he was last night, much better. Hannibal smiles kindly down at him and he returns the gesture. He sets the tray down onto the bed and sits down by it.

 

“Garbure stew with Manchego cheese and ciabatta, with freshly squeezed orange juice” He announces proudly like he would at the dinner table. Will doesn’t question what, or who, is in the stew because he thinks he knows without asking. The meat is tough since the man himself was very bulky and toned in his days, and so, Will works his jaws in grinding the meat, and in doing so, disrupting the stab wound on his cheek and he flinches slightly at the pain. Hannibal notices this without difficulty.

 

“I have put the pot to simmer so as the meat can tenderize later. I just suppose you were hungry when you woke.”  He says calmly, more gentler in a way. His throat probably still sores from last night, because Will know his does. He swallows down the food, reminiscing the similar act in his dream for just a second before he pulls himself out of the confusing, dangerous thought.

 

“I am, and thirsty.” He says then takes a big gulp of the drink, savoring the way the citrus burns his throat. He resumes eating, regaining the energy and strength he has given last night. Hannibal’s food has always been delectable but that simple meal that morning tastes like heaven itself. Maybe because it’s the first meal he’s had since dying and being revived. He eats in silence as Hannibal gazes on, it’s a comfortable silence for what’s it worths, since they both know it can’t last long.

 

Will decides he should be the one to break that stillness, just because reasons.

 

“You... died last night. Your heart stopped. Or maybe because my hands were too shaky to feel the pulse but I thought I los-…. I thought you were gone.” Will says hesitantly, and he can see that Hannibal knows what he was going to say.

 

“So did you. Your heart too did stop.” He says matter-of-factly.

 

“But I woke up. To find you on the floor. Bleeding out.” Will continues, stating what they both know, as if prompting the man into confessing something that’s also known to them both.

 

Hannibal smirks as he sees what the younger man is trying to do. He isn’t to give up that easily in this game. “Yes, I was. And you saved me.” He deliberately avoids the matter Will is trying hard to steer them towards. Will huffs out a frustrated breath as he attempts again.

 

“Yes, but not yourself. You…” He wants to let it go, to save himself the embarrassment but he needs to know for sure. Because all these doubt and uncertainty about his place with Hannibal are getting under his skin.

 

“Did you… Did you give up your life to save mine?” He doesn’t dared to look Hannibal in the eyes because he afraids that he’d find ridicule there, a silly thought to have, considering all they’ve been through. But maybe, he is afraid just because of that exact reason.

 

Hannibal smiles as he finally gets what he wants, like he always eventually does in life. This image of a Will so shy and hesitant after a night of vigour and violence, it seems rather endearing. The two sides of Will, both for only him to see and cherish. He has indeed gotten what he wants.

 

“Yes, Will. I forwent my life in order to tend to your own.” He confesses much to Will’s pleasure. And excitement, in a way. He looks up from his palm and into the depth of Hannibal’s eyes, and sees the same endearment and satisfaction he saw standing over the cliff the night before. And in his dreams.

 

“Does that knowledge please you, Will?” Hannibal says and Will just wants to punch him in his smug face, but he figures they can go for one day without bleeding their innards out.

 

“It's satisfactory, yes.” He admits, barely audibly, as if admitting to himself but for the silence of the room, and for how close they are, it’s impossible that Hannibal can’t catch it. They are closer than he realizes, with one’s exhale can be inhaled by the other. There’s a burning impulse in his chest that resembles one that he’s felt standing in front of Alana before the wrecked fireplace. But instead, it’s Hannibal, and the urge only boils even more violently. He wants to give in to his drive, he wants to so badly.

 

But he decides better against it. There’s more pressing matters than his little sentimental overture. He pulls himself back, and begins to divert the conversation.

 

Hannibal lets him, since there’s no use pushing him if the repercussion would lose him a companion, one he cherish very much. He can still recall his last thought as he was dying, and he doesn’t regret it.

 

“So what should we do now? Jack is probably gathering the SWAT team and the entirety of police force to go after your ass, now that I have not reported back to him.” Will thinks over possibilities and chances of him and Hannibal surviving it. He has heard Jack said it already, _‘and then we kill Hannibal’._ It’s an inevitability, if he’ll be able to kill Hannibal is still uncertain, but he will definitely try. With the help of an army, an odd Will isn’t willing to take. But from the look on Hannibal’s face, it seems he has got everything figured out.

 

“Chiyoh is already on her way.” He says simply and Will wants to roll his eyes in an ‘of-fucking-course she is’ fashion but decides against it. Hannibal continues explaining his plan. “She’ll be here in the next hour or two, depends on how windy the sea is at the moment. I have packed our luggage and passports. There’s a house in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil that’s in my possession and we can lay low there for a while until circumstances shift.”

 

Will recalls his conversation with Bedelia about Hannibal having agencies all over the world and he smiles to himself. The smile then fades as he finds a weird sensation in his chest. Bedelia, she has been somewhat an ally to them both, but she has just been doing so to sustain her life.

 

And still, she holds a significance to Hannibal. How someone who doesn’t understand him fully can acquire his appreciation, Will doesn’t know. Still, he tastes a bitter feeling on his tongue at the thought. Now there’s no need in hiding any wishes anymore, (except for certain ones), he confidently asks.

 

“Before we do that… can we pay someone a visit?”

 

Hannibal’s brow crooks up in intrigue at that. “And who do you have in mind?”

 

A silent beat, acts as a theatrical pause, fills the room.

 

“Dr. Du Maurier.”

 

Hannibal shakes his head, not in disapproval but rather amusement, as evident by the cocky smirk on his face. “You have never failed to surprise me, my dear boy.” And he means it, considering the scars they both have inflected on one another. 

 

Will finds no amusement, but more of anticipation of the doctor’s response. Hannibal feels delighted at the hopeful but dangerous look in those blue eyes. He finally smiles back just as menacingly.

 

“As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in this fandom. I've been reading a lot yet I've not written anything. So this is me, testing the water. I am more than thrilled if you guys can leave any comments or complaints, I can take them all :)  
> P/s: I'm not a native speaker, so if there's any grammar mistakes in there, please tell me. I wanna learn.  
> Thanks for reading.


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